Tristan ran his long fingers through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “This is absurd! How have you managed to turn the tables on me?”
“I would not hurt you for all the world, m’lord, but neither can I allow you to hurt me.”
“Hurt you? To the contrary! I have acquired a special license in the effort to protect you from gossip, ruination and public embarrassment from the early arrival of a child.”
Annica clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Child! There it was again. The most compelling reason for marriage she had heard yet. “But, what of my work with St. Anne’s Orphanage? The social reform movement, my commitments to the Ladies Enfranchisement League and the Wednesday League? I could not bear to give them up.”
“I would not ask that of you, Annica. I have no quarrel with your sentiments, only with your methods. I want no repeat of the riots, and I want you to keep me informed of your activities. But I would not prevent you from acting in accord with your conscience. I believe you have a good one, and I trust your heart—if not always your judgment.”
“That is very kind of you to say so, Tristan.”
“Then, will you marry me, Annica Sayles?”
“Tristan, I…” Never. Never. Never! “I cannot.”
“Marriage is a convenient institution to legitimize one’s heirs. I stand by that reason and appeal to you on those grounds if none other.”
She had a quick flash of herself hiding beneath a desk from her father’s wrath, then an image of a small Tristan, sitting alone at a window with a ticking clock as his only companion, wondering why his mother had abandoned him. Despite her own fears, she could not abandon Tristan, too. And he appeared to want her baby—if there was one. Unlike her father, who had never wanted her.
The small child’s voice repeating her firm vow came again. She pressed her temples with her fingertips to still the throbbing. “I am confused, m’lord. You make a compelling case, but I…this is so beyond me that…”
“Then we are agreed?”
It was impossible to think with Tristan so near. And so insistent. “Agreed? To what, m’lord. I cannot say the word you want to hear. The prospect is foreign to my every plan, my every wish. Must you have an answer now? This day?”
“I would prefer your unqualified acceptance and a commitment to say our vows on the morrow.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She knew her panic was showing, but she could not hide it. “I cannot bend that far, Tristan.”
“Then I will give you a fortnight to think, if you will swear to tell me if you find that you are with child. Trust me, Annica. I will not disappoint you.”
She bowed her head over her hands and gave a little nod.
Tristan did not hesitate. He crossed the library and threw the door open. “Come in, Thomas and Lucy. Annica has consented to consider my offer and give an answer within the fortnight.”
Chapter Ten
By Tuesday evening at the Moores’ crush, the news of Tristan’s offer for Annica had spread from South Kensington to Southwark. Roger Wilkes was quite peeved regarding the news of the pending engagement, and Annica marveled at his audacity. “Really, Mr. Wilkes, I cannot imagine why you think you are entitled to any sort of explanation. If I should choose to marry Auberville, it is my own affair.”
“Affair?” he laughed snidely. “Is that it, then? He has offered to make an honest woman of you?”
Annica halted in the center of the dance floor and swept Wilkes with a scathing glance. There was nothing extraordinary about the man. He was average in every way. Of an average height and build, muddy brown hair, pale blue eyes and a pale complexion. There was nothing about him to suggest his depravity. But she could not separate the man from her suspicion of what he’d done to Sarah.
She snapped her fan open and walked haughtily to the sidelines. She was in no mood to indulge the likes of Roger Wilkes in a fit of pique. She was exhausted and confused, and she was tired of answering ridiculous questions regarding Auberville. How had that news got out, anyway?
“Lady Annica! Wait! I meant no offense—”
“What else could I take from your comment? You have overstepped the boundaries of good manners and common sense.” She reached the French doors to the terrace, fighting the instinct to give him the cut direct and leave him looking like the fool he was. But there was too much at stake—a rape, a murder and a threat to the entire Wednesday League.
“You must forgive me, Lady Annica,” Wilkes said, following her into the cool night air. “I was distraught to think that you had fallen victim to Auberville’s trap.”
Annica took three deep breaths and calmed herself. “Trap? You are speaking nonsense, Mr. Wilkes.”
“I think not. Word has it that he set his sights on you because he admired your competence and independence—the only things he values in a woman. He hooked you, Lady Annica, and he reeled you in. He does not want to take care of you. He wants you because you take care of yourself, and he can leave you to raise his brats while he does as he pleases.”
Annica swallowed hard. Though Wilkes was not reliable, there was just enough of her own fears in his words to give her pause. “Mr. Wilkes, you must not give credence to gossip.”
“Gossip is passed from ear to ear, Lady Annica. My source is close enough to have heard it firsthand. Thus it is far more reliable than gossip.”
“You must promise me you will not repeat what you have told me. If you do, it will prevent any friendship between us.”
“I thought you deserved a warning.”
“I do not need your warnings, sir,” she told him with an uncompromising shrug of one shoulder. “Certainly no one has forced you to be my friend. Nor can I see anyone holding you captive here. Feel free to go.”
She prayed he would leave her alone to collect her thoughts, but when she turned back, he was watching her with an appraising eye. That look raised goose bumps on the back of her neck, and she knew that she had not discouraged Wilkes in the least. She had challenged him.
“I shall stay, Lady Annica, because I believe you are worth the effort.” Wilkes seized her gloved hand and brushed a kiss across the knuckles.
The sound of footsteps interrupted him. “Here you are, Lady Annica,” Auberville said over Wilkes’s shoulder. He came around the man to stand beside her.
His warm hand came to rest on her waist and she smiled, pleased beyond words at his impeccable timing.
“I have been looking for you, my dear,” he said. “There is a small matter I wished to discuss. Good evening, Wilkes.”
“Auberville,” Wilkes said, giving a stiff bow.
“I’d like to speak with my intended privately, Wilkes.” A muscle jumped along his jaw.
Bowing over her hand, Wilkes murmured, “I shall see you later, Lady Annica.” Then he backed away.
She turned to look up at Tristan’s face in the dim light of the hanging lanterns. “Auberville?”
“Annica, for the last time, I want you to stay clear of Wilkes. He is not the sort of person you should cultivate.”
Though she could not have agreed with him more, she also could not tell him why it was necessary for her to maintain a civil relationship with the man—at least for the time being. “He is harmless, Tristan.”
“Harmless is not a word I would use for the likes of Wilkes.”
“What do you know about him, Tristan?”
“That is not a matter to interest you, my dear. Simply trust that I have your welfare at heart.”
“That sort of condescension does not go down well with me, Tristan. If you think this autocratic attitude is the manner in which to deal with me, perhaps you should think again. I am not a child, I am not brainless and I do not appreciate being told what sort of persons to cultivate.”
“And I am not a man accustomed to justifying his opinions and decisions,” he countered.
Or perhaps you are afraid Wilkes will tell me about your carefully laid trap—as he has. “Is ther
e a middle ground, Auberville, or would you prefer we walk away while we still can?”
“You will not be rid of me so easily, Annica.”
“What will it take?” She could have bitten her tongue the moment the words were out. Tristan was dead right in his assessment and unfailing in his instinct to protect her. She was being childish to challenge him in so ridiculous a manner.
He gave her the slow, easy smile that always left her slightly confused and disoriented. “Nothing, sprite. I am determined that you will make an honest man of me. And I’ve never thought of you as brainless. Willful, perhaps, or determined—but never brainless. I will attempt to be less ‘autocratic’ if you will attempt to respect my opinions.”
“You rarely voice an opinion, Auberville.”
“That is precisely why I expect you to listen when I do. Shall we try again? Roger Wilkes is not the sort of man I wish you to traffic with, my dear.”
She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, Tristan. I understand your concern, and I shall keep it in mind. I promise to be careful in my dealings with him, but I cannot simply cut him at this particular time.”
Tristan pulled her into his arms, bent his mouth to hers and kissed her thoroughly. “Nicely done, m’dear. You reaffirm my faith in you.”
“But how will we ever resolve—” She gulped when his tender nibbles paused at a spot on her neck beneath her ear, causing her knees to go weak.
“Trust me,” he said again, his breath hot on her night-cooled flesh.
Trust him? Could she trust any man? “I shall…try,” she sighed, attempting to remember why she was upset with him.
Pulling her shabby brown bonnet closer around her face, Annica smoothed the drape of her worn dress. She was indistinguishable from the dozens of shopgirls and fishwives who filled the streets. Hodgeson followed her down a side street and into an open square. The crush of the Saturday crowd closed around them, assuring their anonymity.
Annica took a few coins from her small reticule. “Purchase scones and cider, Hodgeson. We shall have to eat on the move.”
He balked, then gave her a curt nod, took the coins and hurried off, his limp more pronounced from their exercise.
She turned her back to the open square and focused on the surface of a shop window to see what was happening behind her in the reflection. Roger Wilkes had led them a pretty chase throughout the afternoon. And now they had followed him to this busy square, where he looked around and sat on a narrow bench. He consulted his pocket watch. Looking bored, he flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve and glanced around. Annica watched his studied nonchalance in the window’s reflection and knew with certainty that he was waiting for someone.
Hodgeson rejoined her and offered her a warm scone. “Are we finished yet, milady?”
“Not yet. If you are tired, you may go home. I shall be done very soon.”
“I could be of more help if I knew what we were doing.”
“I cannot tell you.” Annica broke her scone in half and nibbled delicately.
“Does your uncle know—”
“No, and neither does Lord Auberville. This is none of their concern. I would never question your loyalty, Hodgeson, especially after all we have been through together, but do not think of going to them. All you could possibly accomplish would be to upset everyone.”
“My concern is for your safety, milady. Surely you do not suppose Lord Auberville will countenance your odd behaviors. He is not the sort who turns a blind eye to impropriety.”
“Then he has courted the wrong woman,” she muttered under her breath. She turned to face Hodgeson directly. “What have I done that is improper or illegal—today?”
Red-faced, Hodgeson sputtered. “I did not mean…I only meant that, once you are Lady Auberville, your husband might not permit some of your more unusual activities.”
“He said he will not interfere. I have his word upon it.”
“I would not put Lord Auberville to the test.”
“Who will tell him? If he does not know, he cannot challenge me.” Annica turned her attention back to the reflection in the shop window.
Roger Wilkes had stood and was carrying on a hurried conversation with a rough-looking individual. The man was short, with an odd foreign cast to his features and a long ugly scar along his left cheek. They appeared to be arguing, but then Wilkes passed a piece of paper to the man and hurried away in the direction of the main street.
Annica tossed the remains of her scone to a flock of milling pigeons and prepared to hurry after him. But just then Scar-face scurried into the doorway of a nearby building. She paused when she saw him hand over the piece of paper to a man whose upper body was obscured in the shadows. Was he playing a double game? Or was he merely a messenger?
“Hodgeson,” she whispered, “see which way Mr. Wilkes goes and hail a coach. Hurry! I will catch up in a moment!”
“But—”
“Hurry!” she said again. She did not wait to see if he would follow her instructions, but edged closer to the doorway, where a covert conversation was taking place.
“’E says ’e don’t dare come out in public,” Scar-face was saying.
Annica moved nearer, keeping her face averted by studying the goods in the shop windows.
“I do not doubt,” a deep voice replied. “He’d be a fool—”
At that moment Annica was bumped from behind and felt a sharp tug at her wrist. She was being robbed by a cutpurse! Anger and outrage overcame good judgment. She whirled to face the culprit indignantly, holding fast to her little reticule.
“Villain!” she cursed, engaging in a sudden tug-of-war for the worn purse.
“Blimey! Leggo, ye daft wench!” the ruffian exclaimed. He delivered a backhanded slap to Annica’s cheek, and she staggered backward into empty space.
Landing with a hard thump on the cobblestones, she yelped, “Stop, thief!”
A long arm came out of nowhere, and her purse was snatched back as a blow sent the culprit staggering in a mad dash toward a narrow alley. Before she could protest, strong hands lifted her and set her on her feet.
“Are you quite all right, Lady Annica?” a concerned voice inquired.
She spun around to stare in disbelief at her rescuer, glancing toward the empty doorway where, only moments before, two men had been exchanging information. Now, however, only one of them—Geoffrey Morgan!—stood facing her, holding her reticule in one hand and slipping a folded piece of paper into his vest pocket with the other.
“Mr. Morgan,” she acknowledged, her mind working frantically to find a logical explanation for her predicament. She scanned the square to see if Hodgeson was nearby.
Morgan handed her the little reticule with a curt bow. His dark, brooding eyes swept her shabby costume, then lingered on her cheek, his handsome features tense with concern. “You appear to be unharmed. When we report this incident to Auberville, however, he will likely want you to be examined by a physician.”
“Please, Mr. Morgan, there is no need for Auberville to hear about this. I am fine, and I would not want him to worry.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Where is the rest of your party?”
“Oh! Um…” Annica swallowed and blinked. Would she be able to get away with this deceit? She took a deep breath. “I have come out to do some shopping. My servant is hailing a coach.”
“Shopping?” Mr. Morgan asked. His gaze dropped to her shabby costume again.
She glanced into the shop window and her mind registered the goods inside for the first time. Men’s riding gear. “Ah, I was shopping for a gift for my cousin Gilbert. I usually dress down when I come here. To discourage thieves, you see.”
“That explains it, then.” Mr. Morgan smiled, an ingenuous expression that could have won over a lesser woman than she. “You can imagine how surprised I was when I recognized you, Lady Annica, alone and in peril.”
“I am neither alone nor in peril, Mr. Morgan.”
“As to th
at, Lady Annica, there is room for disagreement. You will need more than a shabby dress to discourage thieves. I’m bound to say, however, that I admire your courage. Most women would have given up their purse without a struggle.”
“That is not my nature, sir,” Annica said.
“I can see that.” He nodded. “You must allow me to escort you back to your party. We cannot risk a repeat of that incident.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” Affecting an air of blitheful innocence, she accepted Morgan’s offered arm.
“I have received your aunt’s invitation to her masquerade ball and have sent my acceptance, of course. You must save a dance for me, Lady Annica.”
“’Tis the least I can do in view of your assistance.”
“Auberville is not the sort of man who would take offense at his intended dancing with another man, is he?”
“Would that prevent you from asking?”
He laughed again, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. “Would it prevent you from accepting, Lady Annica?”
“I suppose we have that in common,” she murmured.
“I expect you have heard how your negotiations with Auberville have set the ‘polite world’ in a twitter. There are those who swear you’ll never consent, and others who thought Auberville’s choice would be more…um, conventional.”
“Conventional? Is that a chivalrous way of saying respectable?”
Mr. Morgan looked down at her for a long moment and then gave her a rueful smile. “It is not your way to let an innocent comment pass, is it? Do you challenge everything, Lady Annica?”
“Nearly everything.”
“That must be very uncomfortable for Auberville.”
“He bears up.”
“It is becoming increasingly clear to me just how ideal the Auberville-Sayles match is. I doubt Tristan will ever be complacent again.”
“I was unaware that you are so well acquainted with him, sir.” She raised her eyebrows in an expression of interest.
“We have mutual friends,” he told her. “He and I served the crown together in the Mediterranean.”
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